


The Lighthouse Keeper

by Xiiee



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Ghost Hunters, M/M, Supernatural Elements, and he realizes just how wrong he is, hanzo doesnt believe in such poppycock, jesse is a monster/supernatural hunter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 07:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xiiee/pseuds/Xiiee
Summary: Jesse McCree hunts ghosts and cleanses haunted places for a living... Among others. His significant other, however, doesn't believe in the supernatural and decides to accompany him for shits and giggles. Hanzo will soon realize that while seeing is believing, there are things he'd rather... not see at all.Written for the Strange Oddities McHanzo zine!





	The Lighthouse Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Strange Oddities McHanzo fanzine! Go check them out on tumblr and twitter to give them some love, the whole team did a wonderful job and i'm honored to have been on both TA and SO with them <3

At first, McCree didn’t think things would work out. Hanzo checked every box on the list of things he liked in a man: a dry sense of humor, a strong (if not a bit skewed) moral compass, a taste for adventurous outings, you name it. His one shortcoming was the same obstacle everyone in his profession encountered—skepticism. Jesse couldn’t blame the man, but it s ure had made him nervous about finally telling Hanzo he was in the paranormal hunting business .

Surprisingly, Hanzo hadn’t laughed, nor did he pick up his things and leave. The man seemed to simply take it in stride and roll with it—so long as McCree managed to pay his share of the rent whenever they moved in together and didn’t leave any of his weird ‘hunting’ paraphernalia lying around.

They didn’t talk much about it otherwise, until a week prior to his current contract.

“Take me with you,” Hanzo repeated, eyes barely moving from his computer screen. “I have never seen you come home battered and bloody, so it must not be that dangerous.”

“It’s because I’m prepared, hun.” Jesse tried to defuse the situation. “Besides, don’t you have an article to edit and a novel to finish writing?”

The shiver he felt run down his spine when Hanzo glared at him was comparable to the one he had felt years ago when he came face to face with his first Pukwudgie. Though the menace wasn’t exactly the same, he still felt like a deer in the headlights of a speeding car. Never remind a writer of their to-do list, McCree noted.

“Why do you want to come, anyway? It’s not like you believe anything’ll be there.”

“I need inspiration for my next story,” Hanzo replied, returning to his work. “Maybe these ghosts of yours will whisper their ideas to me.”

Jesse opened his mouth to protest, but he knew better than to try to change Hanzo’s mind. Once he decided he would do something, getting him to abandon that idea was like pulling teeth.

  
  
  


Now facing the lighthouse’s door, Jesse figured looking over their checklist wouldn’t hurt. He could almost hear his mother’s voice repeating what she used to tell him back in the day: better safe than sorry. He turned to Hanzo, who was unloading the car.

“Do you have the crosses?”

“I have the flashlights, the crosses, two mirrors — ” Hanzo enumerated with a groan, his eyebrows knitting together. “Do we really need all of this?”

“We do, darlin’. Now…salt?”

“What salt?”

Jesse paused to look at Hanzo, who squinted back and shrugged.

“You and Genji once said I was ‘saltier than an actual salt mine,’ so I figured we wouldn’t need it.” He closed the passenger door. “I am not sure what this has to do with ghosts. Was it really that important?”

Narrowing his eyes, the hunter gave his companion the up-and-down, trying to find the smallest detail that would betray a lie.

“Are you—”

“It’s in the trunk, Jess.” Hanzo sighed, shaking his head. A thin smile tugged at the corner of his lips, reaching his eyes as he looked at the other man with fondness. “I may not believe in these things, but you do, and if salt makes you feel safer — ” He paused, tossing a messenger bag over his shoulder, looking back at McCree with a smirk. “However: you want it, you carry it. This bag weighs a ton, and I have my own gear to keep in mind. I’ll wait for you inside.”

Grabbing his luggage and one of the sleeping bags, he gave Jesse a wink before walking towards the lighthouse. He wasn’t worried — ghosts, after all, weren’t real. Jesse, on the other hand, groaned as he hoisted one of the bags of salt onto his shoulder, watching as Hanzo entered the building.

Bringing his precious salt — better safe than sorry, he repeated to himself — and his sleeping bag under his arm, Jesse hurried towards the door and managed to open it without dropping anything. Once inside, he dropped the salt near the entrance and gave the room a scan. His heart skipped a beat and he was suddenly all too aware of the dryness of his mouth and the slight buzzing in his ears.

Hanzo was nowhere to be found.

  
  
  


The spiral stairs went on seemingly without end, their coils offering their own version of tunnel vision to whoever looked up towards the top of the tower. Hanzo held tightly onto the railing, attempting not to look up but still eager to reach the top. The need to explore had been overwhelming — to the point where he couldn’t wait for Jesse to come with him. Almost as if something was calling him…which, of course, couldn’t happen, because there was no one else in the lighthouse, nor was there any supernatural influence beckoning him.

He had done a little bit of research on the building, trying to dig up some dirt on what gave this place its reputation. Skimming through articles online, he had found out that around 1920, Hannah Gregoire, the keeper’s daughter, broke her neck falling down the very stairs he was climbing. 45 years later, another man in charge of the lighthouse — Lionel Marshall, age 74 — was driven mad by the isolation and hopped off the tower. Tragic events, sure, but nothing to warrant whatever superstition that led people to believe this place was haunted.

Something about this place felt wrong. Maybe it was the feeling of vertigo as Hanzo looked up. Maybe it was the sound of the wind that grew louder and louder as he climbed the stairs. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks, creating that sickeningly sweet smell and those drafts that sounded like whispers. Rumors played an important role in making people believe in the supernatural — and most fears were heightened by anticipation. It was something he would have to consider for his book.

Lost in thought, Hanzo had to grab onto the railing to keep himself from falling as his foot missed a step. He steadied himself, noticing that the palm of his hand stuck to the varnished wood, as if he had touched a viscous paste. There was a stain there, thick and brownish, as he pulled his hand away. As he raised his foot, the soles of his shoes made the same sound as a strip of Velcro being pulled apart, the gooey brown matter seeming to have dripped onto the stairs as well. Hanzo’s mouth ran dry as he looked at his feet, at the dark puddle that spread to the wall in crude splatter patterns.

Blood. Dried up blood.

Hannah Gregoire, 1920. Found dead after a bad fall.

Hanzo couldn’t tell why he remembered that name so clearly, or why he instantly associated it with those bloodstains. Cold sweat dripped down his spine. Suddenly, going up alone didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. He could even admit to being genuinely scared.

Heading back downstairs, Hanzo threw a last glance over his shoulder at the blood and gore — only to find the step and wall immaculate. No trace of brownish, dried-up splatters. While this should’ve been reassuring, it alarmed Hanzo to the point where he started hurrying down the stairs, only to stop at the sound of footsteps coming up. Jesse’s gait was heavier and quicker than that light, deliberately slow pace he heard approaching.

There was nowhere to go but up.

Not even bothering to look over his shoulder, Hanzo climbed the stairs two at a time. The sounds came closer and closer, and he felt every hair stand straight on his neck as he pushed himself faster towards the top of the tower. The air was freezing; he could see his breath forming pale clouds — _ ghosts _ _ — _ as he bordered on hyperventilating. He barreled through the door at the top of the tower shoulder first, the wind slashing at his face and whistling in his ears. He heaved, attempting to catch his breath, trying to make sense of the feeling of dread in his chest. Clutching the railing, he looked over the edge into the void. The waves crashed relentlessly against the cliff, the rocks below looking like the jagged teeth of some horrible monster. Among them, Hanzo could clearly see, disarticulated like a torn-open doll, the pale, broken body of an old man.  _ Hopped off the tower _ , said the newspaper clippings. _ Driven by madness. _ Yet Hanzo could read his still-moving lips, despite the distance.

_ Watch your back. She’ll push you, too. _

Spinning around, Hanzo couldn’t even muster a sound as he stared into a pair of black, empty eyes.

Jesse was right, and he had been wrong all along.

  
  
  


Sweat clung to Jesse’s brow, making his hair stick to his skin as he rushed up the stairs. His ears rang, his heart beat at an impossible rate and his legs threatened to give out as he made it to the last steps. He had wasted time down there, tracing circles and wards on the mirror, and he hoped he wasn’t too late. This was supposed to be a smooth contract, nothing like blood splatters on the walls and a seething, immortal anger oozing out of the place. Had he known, he would never have dragged Hanzo into this one. 

He pushed the door open and rushed outside, the wind howling into his ears. Relief washed over him as he saw Hanzo standing with his back pressed against the railing as he faced the tainted remains of the keeper’s daughter. With a practiced motion, he set the mirror face up on the concrete floor and gave it a push, sliding it under his quarry. Unlike the horror-movie portrayals, there was no scream, no wind, no elements lashing out to keep the spirit in the physical world. Once her form was locked away in the mirror, Jesse forced his legs to carry him a couple more strides so he could pull Hanzo into a bone-crushing hug.

“I—”

“I’m sorry,” Hanzo cut him off. “I’m sorry, I’m s—”

“You’re here. It’s all that matters.” Jesse pressed his face into Hanzo’s hair, breathing in his scent. This could’ve been so much worse.

“I believe you now.”

“I know.”

“No, I—” Hanzo shifted, taking Jesse’s face in his hands so their eyes could meet. Jesse could still read fear in them, hear it in the slight trembling of Hanzo’s voice. But there was something else, something burning and fierce that had just sparked — something that made his heart beat faster and his face flush. “You’ll have to show me how to do this. You can’t get rid of me now, cowboy.”


End file.
